Empty Chairs
by octocelot
Summary: The Weasleys sit down for a family dinner, except some of them are missing. /AU


**Written for Ludi Plebeii at The Golden Snitch (prompt: Les Miserables).**

 **Written for Challenges by the Dozen at Caesar's Palace (prompt: write about ten different pairings).**

 **Written for Magical Healing at Hogwarts (prompt: write about someone getting over an injury, physical or emotional).**

 **WC: 702**

* * *

The tick of the clock doesn't fill the space, just flutters weakly against the weight of time like a butterfly banging on the windowsill. Thirty ticktocks go by, and nobody moves, either out of sickening guilt or out of appreciation of the food spread before them. The dining cloth was just put down, Molly got out the fine china for the occasion, and Arthur even lit two candles to add to the ambience.

All is silent.

Three chairs are empty.

"Shall we eat?" Arthur says, his voice low and barely controlled, reticent.

George's fork shakes angrily at the ceiling as his fist, gripping the handle, tremors. "We shall," he says, and when the words come out, they don't sound like his. The sarcasm is acidic and before it's only ever been playful.

Twelve tick-tocks pass.

Everything is still.

Molly slices the silence, her words bubbling out over her trembling bottom lip like liquid flowing a cup's edge. The apologies come tumbling, and they don't stop. Or maybe she doesn't try to stop them. "Oh, Merlin, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I forgot to remove the placemats and the chairs I'm so sorry for everything I'm so sorry it ended up like this I'm so - it - nothing was supposed to-"

She covers her mouth with hands, her fingers reaching up delicately to brush away her tears. The sobs rip through her chest at first, but three ticktocks later, she steels herself. She breathes, and George finds himself growing angry that she's holding in her pain.

Fred is dead.

Ginny is dead.

Ron is dead.

And he's still breathing. She's still breathing.

"Well, four out of seven isn't a bad percentage," he bites. Each syllable tumbles out from the back of his throat like he's expelling a poison, and they don't stop. Or maybe he can't make them stop.

Arthur swallows, the smile lines on his face looking more threatening than cheerful. His wrinkles make him look old. George supposes he is. They've all grown old during this war. "George, go to your room," he says slowly, testing the words.

Six quiet tick-tocks later. "Fine."

George stands, surveying the damage. Arthur has reached across the table to rub Molly's shoulder. She dabs at the corner of her eyes with the tablecloth. Percy sits, like he usually does, doing nothing but looking uncomfortable. Charlie is smoothing his mother's hair with a tameness one wouldn't expect from a person who dominates dragons.

The chicken, still steaming, makes George nauseous.

"Excuse me, Bill, Fleur," he mumbles, pushing in his own chair with his leg and walking quickly upstairs. He times his steps with the clock. He wonders how many seconds he has left.

One, two, three.

Four, five, six, seven.

George sits on the bed on his side of the room. They haven't cleared out Fred's stuff yet, because with three kids dead at the last battle at Hogwarts, there's been a lot of other kinds of cleaning up to do. He can barely bring himself to look at the twin bed parallel to his. Otherwise, he'll start to think about what will happen when they finally change what that side looks like, when they finally pack away the bedsheets and the mattress and the little tinkering tools and the photographs. They'll put Fred's life in a box and seal it shut with a sticking charm, and it'll seem so simple.

But for now, the duvet and sheets remain the way Fred left it.

For now, the box of experiments remains under the bed.

For now, Fred's lamp stays on.

He always forgot to turn it off when he left the room.

George lies down, feeling very unclever and a bit sorry and mostly like he shouldn't have been given this second chance at this life. He's not special. Not like Fred was.

He inhales deeply, trying to catch any whiff of Fred that's still left in the room. When he fails, he closes his eyes, willing the tears to come before he realizes he has exhausted them. He's too tired for this.

George lifts himself off the bed and turns off the lamp on the opposite side of the room.


End file.
